A Promise To Myself
by Tentative Steps
Summary: MAJOR SPOILERS FOR 9.1. My version, based on the articles revealed today. In the aftermath, she makes promises to herself; she won't be so distant, she'll try not to remember, and it will no longer be something wonderful that was never said.


**TITLE:** A Promise To Myself  
**RATING:** K  
**CHARACTERS:** Ruth and Harry  
**SPOILERS:** VERY VERY VERY BIG SPOILERS FOR EPISODE ONE OF SEASON 9. DO NOT READ IF YOU'RE AVOIDING THEM!  
**SUMMARY: **MAJOR SPOILERS FOR 9.1. My version, based on the articles revealed today. In the aftermath, she makes promises to herself; she won't be so distant, she'll try not to remember, and it will no longer be something wonderful that was never said.

**A/N:** I hope this lives up to your expectations, if you've read the articles, too! PLEASE don't read if you don't want to be spoilered BIG TIME though! Unbetad - as ever, terrible errors are all mine!

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A Promise To Myself

Amy Littière

_I made a promise to myself  
__Locked it away deep down inside  
__Told my heart we'd wait it out  
__Swore we'd never compromise_

- Dixie Chicks, "I Believe In Love"

The aftermath of the funeral is quiet, cold, and bitter. Ruth feels as though she has lost everyone, now; everyone who ever meant anything to her is slowly being picked off. She sits alone on a bench at the far side of the church yard, her coat pulled tightly around her against the bitter, English cold - a pervasive, and all-encompassing cold that she still can't get used to and which now feels as though it stretches to her very core. She shivers slightly as she gazes around the little patch of grass speckled with headstones and with the flowers left by loved ones. Bitterly, she wonders who will be there to leave flowers for Ros; Ros, who pushed everyone away from her, eventually; Ros, who was left without a family, and who always acted so strong. Ruth cannot help but wonder, as she glances at the most recently engraved headstone, who it is that will be there for her, when her time comes. She finds herself drawing similarities between herself and Ros; she pushes people away, too, or has been doing recently. No one has been allowed in, recently, and the funeral has made her reassess her position. She's lonely; lonelier than she's ever been. She misses the feel of another body beside her when she wakes up, and she misses the laughter of her step-son. She misses the companionship and understanding she found with Jo, and she misses the way things were, before all of this, when she could breathe easily and the biggest regret in her life was not having taken Harry up on a third date.

As she stares, chillingly, at the gravestone for the fourth hour in a row, she decides to do something about it. She can't keep pushing people out. She can't keep ignoring that something which hangs, constantly, in the air between herself and Harry. She can't keep regretting everything she's been through; she can't change it, so she must accept it. Tears prickle lightly in her eyes as she continues to stare, as though hypnotised, but utterly unaware of the figure not ten metres away who is also standing and staring.

Harry, wondering why Ruth hadn't joined them all at the meagre wake pulled together at the last minute by Ruth herself, has made the journey back to the little church yard, suspecting that this is where he'll find her. He picks his way through all the other headstones, some ancient and some horribly new, constant reminders of the fragility of the world we all live in, until he sees her; a black shadow, alone, on the bench across from Ros' grave, crying delicate tears into leather gloves. She seems peaceful; tranquil, heart-broken, alone. That's the thing he noticed above it all; she is absolutely, and utterly alone. It's not just a physical loneliness, but a spiritual one, too, and after a moment, he looses his resolve to stay away, unable to force back to magnetic pull driving him to her side.

He sits, and lays a hand over hers where it rests on her lap. She doesn't notice, until he squeezes it gently, when she eventually looks up, smiling an innocent, watery smile up at him. "We missed you at the wake," he says, by way of explanation. She shrugs;

"I needed some time to think."

He nods, asking "what are you thinking about?" before he can stop himself. This time, though, her smile is genuine, heartfelt, and it stretches to her eyes. She glances away, suddenly a little bashful, and Harry cannot help but smile slightly as he sees the slight blush creeping up her cheeks.

"Lots of things." she says, eventually, before leaning across the slight - but distinct, and carefully monitored - gap between them to rest her head on his shoulder. Instinctively, he lets go of her hand and uses the now-freed arm to pull her closer, glad of the proximity after so many months of carefully controlled detachment. Remembering the promises she's made herself, she snuggles closer, her eyes still fixed on Ros' grave, before she finally says "lots of things, and you."

"Me?" Harry asks, maintaining a façade of slight interest; she's opening up, and, knowing Ruth as he'd like to think he does, he doesn't want to push her to much by sounding overly enthusiastic.

"You."

"Oh?"

"Mmm."

She leaves him to think on that one, turning her head on his shoulder slightly as she hears the sound of a car approaching along the gravelled drive-way. Her heart soars as she sees what it is; a beautiful, pearl-white Rolls Royce with ribbons laced across it and a woman in the most wonderful, traditional wedding dress just visible through the window. Feeling her head move, Harry turns to follow the direction of her gaze, and whispers lightly "must have missed everyone else arriving."

"Mmm." Ruth intones, again. The juxtaposition between the joy the church is feeling now and the sorrow it felt so few hours before plays on her mind as she sits there, and she explains this to Harry, who squeezes her shoulder lightly and presses a fleeting kiss to the top of her head as, ever the spy, he utters words to the effect that the world is a rapidly changing place... she almost giggles at the seriousness in his voice.

"Did you ever think about doing it again?" she asks, still staring at the bride, now climbing out of the car and arranging her veil.

"Sometimes." he admits.

"So, there was someone?"

He can't tell whether she's digging for facts for any reason in particular, or if she's just making conversation to take her mind of Ros and the funeral. He decides, blindly, hopefully, to answer honestly, just in case;

"Yes." he says, and she feels his breath tickle her head, "there is someone."

"Is?" she almost laughs, "present tense?"

"Is." he smiles again, kissing the top of her head once more.

She pulls away, then, leaning over Ros' grave and re-arranging her flowers: "we should go." she tells him, feeling increasingly awkward despite her former promises. "We don't want to be in the way when the happy couple emerge."

"I suppose not." Harry says, standing up and waiting for her to stand, too. When she does, he takes her hand, almost instinctively, and half-expects her to pull away. She doesn't. She takes his hand gladly, almost hungrily, and interlaces her fingers with hers. In comfortably, easy silence, they walk back through the church-yard, taking the long way, along the path which leads them all the way around the back of the church towards the car-park, rather than through the graves. When they near the church doors, Ruth pauses, and whispers "do you mind if we wait?"

"Why?" Harry half-laughs.

"I want to see her." Ruth explains, quietly, unable to hold his gaze. "I want to see what she looks like."

Rolling his eyes slightly, Harry agrees, and pulls her close to him, holding her near. He tells himself it's for the conservation of warmth as they wait, but they both know it's not. There's always something more, that wonderful, unsaid something, a something which neither of them has had the strength to address, of late, and which both are suddenly glad they no longer have to. It's a mutual, silently made agreement; they are going to enjoy the here and the now, and they are going to live in this happy, tranquil bubble, for now, until the bride eventually emerges.

When she does, Ruth admits that she was right; the young blonde, who doesn't look unlike Ros or Jo, is beautiful. The beading on her dress is intricate, and leads Ruth to dream, absently, of what her own dress might one day look like, were such an eventuality ever to arise...

What she doesn't see is how Harry's mind is currently taking him down precisely the same avenues, and, completely unexpectedly, the words "we should do this sometime" seem to find themselves being whispered in to Ruth's ear as he leans down and rests his head on her shoulder, wrapping his arms tightly around her middle as he stands behind her.

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It is a long time before the potential meanings of Harry's words make themselves clear in Ruth's mind; he drives her home, kisses her lightly on the cheek and watches her wander inside, his heart heavy at her lack of response to his words. She makes dinner, watches telly and reads herself to sleep on the sofa around midnight, tears for Ros and for her promises to herself prickling in her eyes as she does so.

It is only at three o'clock, when she jerks awake, having heard those whispered words in her ear over and over and over and over in her dreams, always accompanied by a montage from another wedding scenario, that their real meaning, or what she supposes is their real meaning, becomes clear to her.

Suddenly, she's no longer tired. Suddenly, she's wired. She crosses the living room in three, bounding steps and picks up the phone, dialling his number without a second thought. It is twenty rings before he eventually answers, groggily muttering "Hello?"

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" she asks, holding her breath for a response.

"What did I say earlier?" he blinks, sleep evident in his voice. Her heart falls;

"We should do this sometime."

"Mmm."

"Did you mean it?"

"Yes."

"Yes, then." Ruth whispers, unable to believe what she is hearing. Her heart is on fire. "My answer is yes."

"Oh good." Harry groggily replies.

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On the Grid that morning, the tension is tangible in the air, but no one can quite work out why. They're all sad; of course they are, but Ros' death doesn't feel like the frisson you get in your heart when you see that one person, or like unbridled sexual tension. They've all long since given up wondering about Ruth and Harry; recently, there's been nothing, save a few fly-away comments, and so they all assume it's been put to bed - figuratively, rather than literally.

So, when Harry relieves the tension at the end of the meeting, no one is quite sure who is more shocked; "Oh," he says, passing some files across the table to Tariq, "and one more thing." A pause; he stares intently at Ruth, as though willing her to give her permission, before he says "now, I'm not entirely sure about this, but I think Ruth and I may have become engaged last night, and I wanted you all to know first."

The shocked silence is complete; Ruth freezes, and for a horrible moment, Harry wonders if he's imagined it. She crosses to him, slowly, as though hypnotised, and as she raises her hand to his face he half wonders if she's going to slap him; eventually, though, she brings her hand to his cheek and leans in to kiss him softly and lingeringly. "It's been a long time coming," she whispers, leaning her forehead against his, and completely ignoring anything outside of their bubble (including applause, and, if Harry's not mistaken, a wolf-whistle), "but I love you, Harry Pearce."

"Good." Harry whispers in reply, catching her lips again. "Am I allowed to say it, too, this time?"

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